Arthur Upfield: Murder Must Wait

“Great Scott!” he said, loudly. “Good heavens! Where did you get it?”

Genuine curiosity kept Bony standing before these unusual people. He was startled that they could see him, know him as the branch he was from the maternal vine whose roots are deeper far than the deepest artesian bore in Australia.

“Lizbeth, you have offended this man,” rumbled the aged youth.

“Hope not, Henry. I want to be friends with him.”

“Of course, Lizbeth.”To Bony: “Please tell us who you are.”

“I am Napoleon Bonaparte,” conceded Bony.

“To repeat one of the questions you put to me, Mr Bonaparte, what are you?” asked the woman less belligerently.

“I am a detective.”

“You had to be,” she agreed. “Tracking would come naturally, like breathing. And your third question, I ask you. How are you?”

“Somewhat doubtful,” admitted Bony.“Since a moment or two ago. Now, if you will pardon me, I will attend to my own business.”

“Oh, don’t go yet,” urged the woman. “We’re quite sane, really.”

“I have never doubted that,” was the gravely uttered falsehood.

“Then do come in for a few minutes. I’ll make you a billy of tea, and I have some real brownie.”

Bony heard the car slide to a stop at the moment when he was undecided whether to be amused or angry by these persons’ persistent attitude of superiority. He saw the man look beyond him and gaily wave a hand to whoever opened the car door. Then he heard Sergeant Yoti say:

“Thought you’d like the car, sir.”

Amusedly Bony witnessed dawning astonishment in the woman’s eyes. The man said loudly:

“Please present us, Sergeant.”

Yoti regarded Bony, caught his slight nod of assent.

“Professor Marlo-Jones and Mrs Jones. Detective-Inspector Napoleon Bonaparte, of the Queensland Police.”

Bony bowed. The Marlo-Joneses automatically copied him. They said nothing, and when they regained balance Bony was smiling.

“Strange pair, Sergeant,” remarked Bony when the car was moving.

“Harmless enough,” replied Yoti. “They say he’s a clever old bird, she does a lot of good at one thing and another.”

“A real Prof.?”

“Too right! Retired, of course. Lives here to be near the aboriginal settlement up-river. Writing a book about them. She teaches botany.”

Softy Bony laughed.

“Thought I was a new flower, I believe. Wanted me to stay for a billy of tea and a slice of brownie… her idea of a smoko tea suitable for a half-caste.” The laughter ran before bitterness. “Guess to what I owe my self-respect, and my rank.”

“Haven’t a clue,” declined the now cautious Yoti.

“The facility with which I thumb my nose at superior people. Stop at the Post Office, please. I wish to telegraph a request to Superintendent Bolt, down in Melbourne.”

Alice McGorr

SUPERINTENDENTBOLT, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Branch of the Victoria Police, was verging on sixty and hated the thought of compulsory retirement. He had many friends and admirers in the Department, and one of them was First Constable Alice McGorr.

Bony had never met Alice McGorr, and he had not heard her story from Superintendent Bolt, although aware of Bolt’s warm regard for her.

It appeared that old man McGorr was the finest ‘can opener’ of his generation, having served an apprenticeship with an English firm of safe makers and kept his knowledge up-to-date. Bolt was a sergeant when he came in contact with McGorr, who at the time was on vacation from gaol, and was chiefly instrumental in terminating the ‘can opener’s’ holiday.

McGorr died in durance vile, and it happened that Mrs Bolt heard through her church association that Mrs McGorr and the children were facing the rocks. She visited the house owned by the widow to see what was what, and arrived an hour after Mrs McGorr had been taken to hospital with a fatal complaint.

Mrs Bolt was invited into the front room by Alice, a thin slab of a girl of fifteen who explained that her mother had been desperately ill for a long time. There was no animosity towards the visitor and Mrs Bolt learned that the eldest son was nineteen and in steady work, the eldest girl was eighteen and still in her first job as a stenographer. Next to this girl came Alice, who was followed by a girl of six and finally twin boys aged two and a fraction. She learned as well, from other sources, that Alice McGorr had been running the home for eighteen months, nursing the mother, caring for the small sister and the twin baby brothers.

The Bolts, having no family, became the parents of that one, when the mother died soon after entering hospital, and not one member of the family took the slightest interest in safes and the problem of opening them without keys.

Alice McGorr went to night school, and when Alice looked at Superintendent Bolt she was beautiful to see. She studied between making beds, sweeping rooms, even as she cooked, and Alice passed the Intermediate. They lived in an inner industrial suburb, and Alice took a keen interest in the people of the district, becoming the social worker of the church… and something more. She had the knack of spinning threads of information into patterns, and the bread Bolt launched upon the water was returned to him by the baker’s batch.

When the twins left school and went to work, and the eldest son’s wife took over the home, Alice joined the Force. She had all the gifts the job demanded. She could fight like a tiger before she entered the training school for women, and when she passed for duty she could master the instructors in ju-jitsu. They put her into the worst districts, and she was never hurt. Attempts to cripple her were made by thugs, and the thugs were crippled by their own. A gunman shot at her, and the gunman had his face slashed. A low type once told her what he’d do to her, and the bad man’s wife bided her time and emptied a pot full of boiling cabbage over him. No one seemed to know why, save Bolt and the church minister.

The evening came when Alice was instructed by the Senior Officer of her district to report to Superintendent Bolt at his private house. Bolt said:

“Alice, will you do me a favour?”

“Of course. Anything,” she replied with quiet earnestness.

“I got a pal,” Bolt went on. “He’s the most conceited man in Australia. The most aggravating cuss in the world. He thinks he knows everything… sometimes. I’ve known him for years, and we’re still pals. He’s half-abobut whiter than me. He’s…”

“Couldn’t be, Pop.”

“He is, so don’t argue. The name’s Napoleon Bonaparte.”

“I’ve heard things, Pop. Go on.”

“Bony… he’s Bony to all hisfriends… seems to have been persuaded to investigate the abduction of those four babies at Mitford. Bit out of his line, ’coshe concentrates on difficult homicides. Anyway, he’s up at Mitford, and has asked me to send you up to off-side for him. You know, just like that. No thought of us being in the Victoria Force and him working for New South Wales. Oh, no! Such matters as State boundaries and inter-State jealousies wouldn’t register with Bony. Just asks… just expects. Will you go?”

“I’d like to.”

“Good! I’ve arranged it. You’ll have no authority in Mitford, of course… being Bony’s private assistant. There’s a plane for Broken Hill in the morning at ten which will put you down at Mitford. Catch the bus leaving Airways House at nine-thirty. Apply there for your ticket, which will be paid for.”

“All right! No uniform, of course.” Alice rose. “Thanks, Pop! I’ll not let you down, or your pal. Those vanished babies will be right in my handbag in no time. I’ve read all about them… poor little mites.”